


Schrödinger's Soulmate

by FaiaSakura



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of previous JackParse and ZimBits, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, they're on the path to a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 00:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19414366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaSakura/pseuds/FaiaSakura
Summary: If you don't acknowledge your soulmate exists, then do you really have one?Eric Bittle's thoughts about his soulmate have changed over the years, but he never once thought it would be Kent Parson. Now that he knows, though, he is definitely going to ignore it all. Probably. Maybe.





	Schrödinger's Soulmate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheUnvanquishedZims](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnvanquishedZims/gifts).



> Happy KPBB 2019! I hope you enjoy this. I had a lot of fun digging into a soulmate situation where there was strong initial hesitancy. Shoutout to my beta's who will be linked after reveals.

Surely Eric Bittle can do better than _this_.

He listens as Josh from Coffee Meets Bagel prattles on and on _and on_ , somehow making gardening the dullest subject on the planet. Eric appreciates good gardening. As a chef, he values fresh, well-grown ingredients, nurtured from seedling to ripe. He even grows his own herbs.

Gardening is interesting. Josh isn’t. Eric is way out of this guy’s league. 

Eric is the one scraping the bottom of the dating pool, though.

On the surface, there shouldn’t be any reason for that. Eric is a rising pastry chef in New York City, working at one of the hottest restaurants in Manhattan. He is also one of the prevalent out chefs and is paving the way in the queer culinary scene.

Not to sound conceited, but Eric is a fucking catch. And yet, he’s here, listening to Josh talk about soil acidity levels.

So what if he works long and sometimes irregular hours? Plenty of other professionals were equally married to their careers and still managed better than a mediocre date in a lackluster sports bar with boring Josh.

Eric nods and hums like he’s engaged, just to not fall asleep.

The food isn’t helping. American fare done right is delicious and flavorful, but the round of shared appetizers they ordered are greasy and lack any flavor other than too much salt. Eric can think of five different ways to make a better dish with the same ingredients. Not to mention how Eric has to wash it down with Budweiser of all beers. In this glorious year under the reign of Beyoncé, how is Budweiser the best option a sports bar in NYC can offer? He can get craft brews all the way back in rural Georgia.

And! For some infernal reason, the TV screens, one of which is in Eric’s direct line of sight, are all showing hockey. Not even the Islanders. It’s playing a match between the Aces and the Schooners, which is only marginally better than if the Falconers were on.

Eric watches it anyway because it’s still more interesting than listening to Josh talk about homemade fertilizer in his monotone voice. Literally anything would be more interesting than Josh. 

That’s how Eric catches the exact moment Aces captain Kent Parson goes down and doesn’t get back up.

A small gasp escapes him.

Not because he’s alarmed about Parson or startled by the dangerous nature of hockey. Eric watched enough tapes and games in his hockey years to be desensitized to the frequent checking that happens.

No, a gasp escapes him because there is a tingling in his knee that is spreading out in both directions until his entire leg feels like a playground inhabited by crawling ants.

A tingling that started the very moment Parson went down.

Of course, Josh, who doesn’t notice how Eric is a sip of beer away from falling asleep, does notice his reaction and stops talking to ask Eric about it.

“Oh, nothing. Just that poor guy,” Eric says, nodding towards the screens, where a stretcher is carrying Kent Parson off the ice. “Must be a nasty injury.”

Then, inexplicably, Eric adds, “I met him once. Took a selfie.”

Of all the connections Eric has to Kent Parson, taking a selfie is probably the least notable. But that’s not Josh’s business.

Josh now prattles on about how he’s never watched hockey, isn’t much of a sports guy in general—which begs the question of why he chose this bar because the food and ambiance sucks—but Eric tunes him out, distracted by much, much, _much_ more important thoughts.

Kent Parson just had a career-ending injury.

Eric knows Kent Parson is injured because he watched it happen on TV.

Eric knows it’s career-ending because _he felt it happen_.

Injury resonance has always been a troublesome soulmate marker. Eric has lived with mysterious bruises in unnatural coloring his entire life and has consequently mastered the art of perfectly blending foundation on any part of his body to avoid awkward questions. Luckily, most injuries his soulmate—Parson—has are easily covered by clothing.

Eric’s got his own share of sports and then cooking-related injuries that show up on his soulmate, so it evens out.

But Eric has never, ever _felt_ his soulmate’s injury occur, no matter how egregious or long-lasting any of the prior ones have been. This phenomenon was only supposed to happen in the most excruciating circumstances. Parson’s leg is truly fucked, in a way that must be career-ending.

The tingling starts to fade just as Josh launches into a story of how he tripped the first day of Little League and never went back, and Eric wishes he could pretend it was simply an uncomfortable sensation from his foot falling asleep, but he knows that under his pants he will find a riot of colors.

Much as he would like to deny it, Kent Parson is his soulmate.

\----

Eric tries to funnel his energy into prepping for the restaurant’s evening opening and not maudlin thoughts about soulmates.

 _Chop chop chop, chop chop._ Eric scrapes the herbs into a bowl.

Just because Kent Parson is his soulmate, doesn’t mean Eric needs to do anything about it.

Society loved to herald soulmates as the end all, be all of relationships, the one true romantic-sexual love that defined your very personhood.

Eric bought into that kind of thing in his youth. Fairytale princes and happily-ever-afters. A love story for the ages. Someone who was made perfectly for him, who would whisk him off to some better place than homophobic Georgia.

Nowadays, Eric believes in things like hard work and ingenuity and agency.

 _Flick._ Eric turns the light on in the industrial oven and checks that the pastries are rising evenly.

He also has a better understanding that soulmates aren’t necessarily romantic and or sexual partners.

Soulmates could be blood relatives or best friends or even bitter enemies.

Just because, statistically speaking, soulmates tend towards romantic relationships, doesn’t mean that’s what Eric’s connection to Kent Parson is.

Eric washes his hands under near-scalding water and makes sure to scrub extra hard.

Maybe Parson will retire and become a pastry chef, and Bitty will be his mentor, and they’ll revolutionize the culinary scene.

It could happen. He read that Kent’s mother owned a bakery in New York. Their connection could absolutely be baking in the same city. Just baking.

Eric is going to ignore the hockey and Jack Zimmermann connections.

In fact, Eric is going to ignore any connection.

He calls out to the head chef and shoves the thoughts away.

\----

It doesn’t take long for Eric to stop consciously noticing the way his leg looks like he let children color on it with fluorescent markers.

He shoves dating to the wayside after striking out horribly with both online dates and being set up by mutual friends—instead devoting his time to the restaurant to help earn that second Michelin Star.

In fact, he is so good at ignoring the problem that when spring blossoms into summer, he forgets about it until he tries to put on a pair of shorts.

Well, the shorts fit. And make his thighs look great.

They also show off his knees, including the one that still resembles technicolor soup.

Eric doesn’t have much free time, and he wants to spend what little of the summer he does have enjoying it—in his cute collection of shorts with limited wear time in someplace so seasonal.

He settles for skinny jeans that make his ass look great and makes a mental note to maybe do something about all…this.

\----

Eric sprinkles flour delicately onto the counter and spreads it into an even layer with his hand.

If he’s being honest, Eric wouldn’t mind having sex with Kent Parson. The man is objectively hot. Parson’s super friendly social media persona combined with what Eric actually knows about how he is as a captain leads Eric to think Parson is as dedicated and focused on the sheets as he is on the ice.

Not that Eric has thought extensively about this. Not at all.

But how hot the sex would be isn’t the problem.

He slams a ball of dough onto the counter with a little too much enthusiasm and creates a little cloud of flour. His hands work into the dough with vigor.

The problem is that Eric has tried the whole dating a hockey star shtick before. And he likes to think he’s learned better.

Thankfully, unlike last time, Eric isn’t operating under the impression Kent Parson is straight. Not that there’s going to be a _this time_.

And isn’t it too…coincidental? Cliché? That his soulmate is his ex-boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend. This whole thing doesn’t sit comfortably with Eric and he’s honest enough to himself that he can say in the privacy of his mind that this is weird.

It’s not so much distressing as it is…discombobulating.

Eric keeps kneading the dough with possibly too much force.

\----

Maybe there will be a _this time_. Eric can admit that much, given he’s making a pie at 4 am, for a recipient that might not even be around to receive it.

But if Parson is around, he’ll love the pie. Eric spent an obscene amount of time stalking all of Parson’s social media, including his Yelp reviews, and has determined that Dutch apple pie is Ken—Parson’s favorite.

This pie will be flaky crust containing a delicious fruity filling and topped with the perfect crumble. No man could resist this pie.

Eric tells himself that as he sets it in the oven. He fidgets for a moment, tracing over the splatter of color across his knuckles.

The discoloration appeared a week ago and almost faded before a new set appeared. These past few days, the marks have kept shifting, as if being renewed over and over again.

Eric’s hands are one of the few places he cannot cover with foundation to avoid questions, given that he works in a kitchen and very much needs his hands clean.

There’s also a troubling spider web pattern on his foot that looks awfully like Ke—Parson stepped on broken glass. The man is not doing well and a pie will brighten up his day.

He tells himself this isn’t stalkerish and starts rinsing off all the equipment he used.

\----

Eric fidgets outside The Rainbow Panadería, pie box in hand.

This is a stupid idea. What if Kent’s not even here? Instagram says Ken—Parson has spent a lot of time at his mother’s bakery recently, probably drumming up business by attracting hockey fans. But he hasn’t posted since early yesterday and could be in Canada for all Eric knows.

Eric is about to knock on the door that still has a “Closed” sign in the glass when it occurs to him that he should return at normal business hours. 6:30 in the morning might not be an inappropriate pie eating time—because any time is pie time—but it is an inappropriate pie delivering time.

Parson’s probably sleeping in some fancy high-rise condo with a waterfront view.

No. He can do this. Eric raises his hand to knock again but there’s a jingling as the door opens before he can. He blinks at the woman standing in front of him.

“Can I help you?” she asks, in a slightly accented voice, eyebrow raised.

From internet research, Eric knows that she is Mariana Parson, single mother of two, owner of The Rainbow Panadería. The bakery was initially funded by K—Parson’s hockey fortune but is a self-sustaining enterprise now, a screaming success in this economy given the perpetually thin profit margins in the food industry. 

Mariana Parson waits for a response from him.

“Hi! Buenos días! Good morning!” Eric beams at her with his most winning smile and tries not to scream on the inside for using three redundant greetings. “I’m Eric Bittle. I’m, um, sort of a friend of Kent’s. I thought I would surprise him with a pie. Is he around?”

This was a bad idea. Eric should have just messaged Kent on Twitter. They’re both verified; Kent would probably respond. But no, Eric had to do things the roundabout way and must now suffer the consequence of awkward interactions with Kent’s mom.

“A sort of friend.” Mariana draws out the words as if contemplating each one in slow succession, savoring the sounds. She hums and looks at him with eyes Eric is pretty sure can see into his soul.

Her gaze drags down from his eyes and lands on his hands—more specifically, the marks that are a fluorescent reflection of what Parson’s hand must look like.

She tsks at him and moves to let him in, which thank all that is holy because Eric was about to crumble under the weight of her observation and spill out all his secrets. He’s weak to wise, older women.

Mariana assesses him again. “A sort of friend indeed. Kenny is upstairs, come with me.”

She leads Eric to a restricted access area, with a stairway that leads up to a residence unit over the bakery, before leaving him alone with his pie.

Eric draws in his breath—he’s made it this far, there can hardly be turning back now.

He walks up the steps, careful about how much creaking noise he makes, and balances the pie box on one hand to ring the buzzer.

There’s no response.

He doesn’t want to be one of those impatient people who ring the buzzer with obnoxious frequency, and he doesn’t hear any movement inside, but surely Kent’s mother wouldn’t let him here if Kent were still sleeping.

Eric chooses to knock, gently but firmly, on the door.

There’s a muffled “coming” from inside.

Kent Parson opens the door and looks at Eric, clearly caught off guard. He watches as Kent’s expressive face settles on mixed curious confusion.

Eric takes a moment to look at Kent in the flesh. His hair looks tousled, his shirt is damp with sweat, and his eyes are a stormy blue. His hands are bandaged up in tape and his knee is in a brace. He’s wearing fuzzy cat slippers.

“Bittle, isn’t it? Eric Bittle.” Kent draws out his words in contemplation, not unlike his mother had, moments ago. “What are you doing here?”

“I—” Eric clears out his throat. “I brought you pie.”

“You brought me pie?” Parson asks. His voice is incredulous even as he looks at the box Eric carries. “You brought me pie.”

The second time he says it, it’s no longer a question, but there’s still a skepticism there between the words and in the furrow of his eyebrows, like Eric would deliver a suspect or fake pie.

Eric would never ruin the sanctity of pie like that. 

“And, well…” Eric trails off as quickly as he starts, not sure how to say the words. Somehow in all his planning and research, he didn’t consider what he would actually say to Ken—Parson.

A grave mistake on his part.

Eric lifts his free hand, words have fled his mind, with the knuckles facing towards Parson, the colorful markings obvious.

Dear Lord, this will be the most horrendously awkward moment of his entire life if Eric is wrong about everything. Eric really hopes he’s not wrong.

“You’re—” Kent sounds like he’s choking on something unpleasant. “Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, making his cowlicks even messier, and lets Eric in.

Eric sets the pie down on a dining table that Kent gestures at and is still resting his hands on it when Kent asks, “How long have you known?”

He’s leaning against the table, looking coolly at Eric, eyes narrowed in judgment or deep contemplation or some other emotion that can’t easily be read.

“I—since the—” Eric gestures to Kent’s knee and then his own. His fidgets under Kent’s sharp eyes, running his fingers over the corners of the pie box—familiar cardstock ridges and folds, he’s been using the same brand of packaging to gift baked goods for years.

There’s a brief silence where the only sounds are the ticking of an old cuckoo clock on the wall and cars passing by on the street outside.

“That was months ago.” Each of Kent’s words is spoken with slow deliberation, with certain restraint.

Eric is reminded of nearly a decade ago, the first time he met Kent Parson. He didn’t know much about pro hockey, was simply following the crowd’s excitement to top-of-the-league Parser.

He remembers the seemingly casual way Kent had greeted Jack, that Eric now knows must have been calculated nonchalance. How Kent had so easily torn Jack apart with poison dripping from each word as Eric eavesdropped without context.

It took a long time for Eric to really understand that night, from little puzzle pieces dropped by Jack over the years that Eric hadn’t been interested in or intended on picking up and fitting together.

The enigma of Kent Parson.

Eric imagines that nearly ten years later, Kent probably has better restraint over his vocabulary. And while Eric likes to think he’s better about making assumptions, maybe he’s mistakenly made some about the man in front of him.

Kent speaks up again. “What made you decide to come here now? It couldn’t have been hard to find me.”

There’s an accusation hidden in that statement. Maybe. Or maybe Eric projecting self-guilt into Kent’s words.

Eric’s not sure if Kent is referring to how he’s a celebrity who can be easily tracked or if he’s referencing that Eric has enough ties to the hockey community to get insider information. It suddenly dawns on him that Kent had almost immediately recognized who Eric was.

Does Kent have a good memory for faces? Is Eric filed away as _Jack Zimmermann’s ex-boyfriend_ despite having broken up with Jack years ago? Or maybe since the hundreds of Yelp reviews and endless casual food pics on Instagram indicate that Kent is somewhat of a foodie, he is familiar with Eric’s culinary achievements.

Whichever reason it is, Kent is still waiting for an answer. An answer that Eric isn’t entirely sure of anymore.

Eric finally finds his voice. “What would you have done? If you had found out first, that I was your soulmate.” He speaks sharper than intended, not wanting to be judged for waiting months before reaching out.

Kent settles further against the table and runs his hand through his hair again. “I don’t know. Probably pretend that I didn’t.” He laughs, in a way that’s either mocking or self-deprecating. Eric thinks he might just be the latter, not something he would have guessed before coming here. “Did you have a plan beyond coming here with pie? What kind is it?”

“Dutch apple,” Eric replies, and because he’s clearly lost control of this situation, he continues with, “your favorite.”

“How do you—” _know that_ , Kent doesn’t finish asking. There’s a look of confusion on his face again.

“Oh, well, you know—” Eric waves a hand in the air, gesturing in a circle. It answers precisely nothing.

Kent huffs but doesn’t press. Instead, he says, “Okay, let’s see if your pies really are that good.”

Eric stands awkwardly by the table as Kent goes into the kitchen. A moment later, Kent returns juggling plates, a host of utensils, and a carton of vanilla ice cream.

Before Eric gets a chance to suggest that he’s here only to drop off the pie, Kent shoots him a look and asks, “Ice cream?”

And that’s how Eric finds himself eating apple pie and ice cream at 7:00 am with Kent Parson.

It’s… not at all what Eric was expecting.

Kent speaks like they’re buddies as he declares how the pie is “bomb-ass delicious.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” Kent asks, halfway through eating his slice.

“What?”

“Hobbies, interests, likes, dislikes.” Kent waves his fork in a lazy circle. “You know.”

Eric knows what _tell me about yourself_ means, but he very much does not know why Kent is asking him.

He finds himself responding anyways. “Well, I’m the head pâtissier at Sun and Moon in Midtown. I’ve recently joined a local dance crew. I’m concerned that you’re hurting yourself.” That last one is not something particularly _about yourself_ or what Eric intended on saying.

Kent raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” He looks offended.

Eric shows off the color marks on his knuckles.

“I’ve taken up freehand boxing.”

“And your foot?”

“Kit knocked over a glass last week and I rushed to pick her up before she could step on it.”

“So you stepped on it instead.”

“Yeah dude, I’m not gonna let my little princess get hurt.” Kent sounds horribly offended by the mere thought of it.

“Little princess?” Eric remembers looking through Kit Purrson’s Instagram account back in college. Kit in her majestic white fluffiness is not little in any meaning of the word.

“Fine, my darling queen. You shouldn’t allude to a lady’s age, though.” Kent sniffs, speaking with a gravity that implies great and dire consequences.

“Is she here?” Eric looks around for indications that a cat lives there. “I’ve always wanted to meet her.”

“You have?” Kent is skeptical, but Eric is serious if also deflecting from more serious conversation. He’s not one for the actual responsibilities of pet ownership but he loves being able to play with animals for a little while. Same with children, especially babies.

“She is a queen, Kent Parson. Why wouldn’t I want to meet her?”

Kent looks like he can use all his fingers to count out the reasons why Eric wouldn’t but, again, doesn’t voice what he’s thinking.

It’s odd, now that Eric’s seen it happen a few times. Kent’s online persona is always mouthing off with strong opinions and his TV interview persona provides confident, if sometimes colorful, answers for any question asked.

Of all things, a Kent Parson with restraint is not what Eric was expecting today.

“Come on, let’s see if she’s awake.”

He follows Kent through the apartment, and they find Kit lounging in a patch of sunlight in the combined office-gym room.

“Hello, darling.” Eric gets on his knees and slowly approaches her, one hand extended so she can sniff his fingers.

Kit blinks lazily at him and sniffs, then butts her head under his hand. Eric brushes along the topside of her head and trails his fingers through her plush mane to the underside of her chin. She purrs immediately and lets him continue petting her for a little while longer before losing interest and settling back to continue napping in a puddle of warmth.

“What exactly are you doing here? Because it’s not to meet my cat.”

Kent leans against the doorway, sounding more tired than accusatory. In the brightness of the room, his eyes are a very striking turquoise, reminiscent of how the lakes in Georgia sparkled on hot summer days.

They’ve been tiptoeing around each other this whole time, veiled politeness and aborted thoughts. Testing the waters, not wanting to rock the boat. But they won’t get anywhere without some agitation, not at this rate.

Kent’s not going to start something. Apparently, Eric will.

“I’m tired of choosing between covering up the marks and covering up that I know who you are. You were right when you first asked. I ignored that you were my soulmate. It was weird! It was awkward! You’re Kent fucking Parson, ex of my ex! I have always been good at ignoring my problems but you’re not going to go away.”

Eric draws a quick breath and continues, not giving Kent a chance to respond.

“It was—too much. I didn’t want to get sucked back into the hockey world. I didn’t want a rich NHL boyfriend. I was—I wasn’t—back then, I was _Jack Zimmermann’s gay boyfriend_ , I was a glorified housewife relying on the connections and wealth of my partner. Now I’m Eric fucking Bittle, winner of Chopped and Chopped Champions, recent recipient of the James Beard Foundation’s Outstanding Pastry Chef award, head pâtissier of Sun and Moon—”

“And you don’t want to go back.” Kent interrupts Eric before he can list his entire resume. “To underneath the shadow of your boyfriend’s career.” 

When all Eric can do is nod, Kent continues, “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be defined by Zimms? To have my achievements eclipsed by the mere mention of him?”

“I think you’re the only one who does.” 

The real problem with Kent Parson being Eric Bittle’s soulmate is that he represents the possibility of another serious relationship. The first and last time Eric was in one, he had been drawn in so deep, given up so much, that he couldn’t recognize the parts of himself that remained. 

Over the years, Eric has been in relationships with other men. Relationships that he maintained from a guarded distance to protect himself from getting sucked in too close again. Relationships that he held too much control in, unable to find balance as he steamrolled over his partner. Relationships that he never let get past a first date. 

The real problem was never really Kent Parson. 

“Then what? Do you think you haven’t outgrown the influence he has on you?” Kent sounds baffled.

“People still ask me about him. People still ask _you_ about him! And, and! If we dated, they’ll never stop.”

“I can’t believe this is actually happening. How the fuck is Zimms still screwing with my life?” Kent approaches slowly, a limp noticeable in his bad leg. He telegraphs his movements as he slowly rests his hands on Eric’s shoulders. Eric sees infinite possibilities in his eyes. “We’re our own people. You’re this rising star pastry chef, and I kept my place at the top of the league for my entire career. Fuck what anyone else says. I want to know how you really feel.”

Eric feels—Eric wants—

As a child, Eric imagined that he would meet eyes with his soulmate and they would both just _know_ , an instant connection filled with love and passion. As a teenager, Eric alternated between wishing his soulmate was a woman who would help him maintain pretense at being straight and wishing his soulmate was a man who would charm every homophobic ass in all of Georgia and make them jealous.

As an adult, Eric knows better than to think that fairytale endings just happen. 

There’s still a glimmer of childhood hope left in his heart though, a desperate yearning for someone that matches and complements him, neither consumed by the other’s intensity.

“I want to know who you are. I want to know who we could be. I—” Eric doesn’t know how to finish. He feels exposed and raw and vulnerable.

But he also feels free, like he’s broken through the thrall of Jack’s gravity.

Kent seems to sense how fragile the moment is, and eases up, letting go of Eric’s shoulder and taking a step back. He looks away, towards the window that overlooks a back alley. “I wondered for a long time who my soulmate was. If they would like me. If they would love me…back,” he admits with a shuddering sigh, before turning back to Eric. “I’m willing to try if you are.”

It’s not a grand love confession and there’s no princely knight sweeping Eric off his feet. It’s messy and there are innumerable paths that could lead to heartache. But it’s real, and he’ll take it.

“I’d like that,” Eric breathes, barely louder than a whisper, and feels what might best be called fear lifting from where it settled around him all those months ago. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought in the comments below. ❤️


End file.
